Clue
by Sunset
Summary: Ever play the game? What would happen if the body was real? Whole team casefile.
1. The Body

Disclaimer: Not at all affiliated with Parker Brothers, CBS or Bruckheimer Productions, just borrowing the character names for a bit.

**Clue**

**Chapter One**

**The Body**

The dead body lay on its stomach in front of the fireplace; arms and legs sprawled and angled, looking very much like a generic white chalked outline.

A stunned silence filled the room; all eyes were on the amateur detective who'd flown in from Minnesota, never dreaming he would be pointing the finger to expose a murder for what he was.

"You, Professor Plum, I accuse you of striking Mr. Boddy in the back of the head with the lead pipe, in the conservatory."

A gasp came from the gathered participants, and all eyes in the room traveled from the accuser to the accused, sitting in an overstuffed winged chair with his legs crossed, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

The Professor held a lit match to his pipe and gave it a two short sucks, enjoying his moment. Behind him, and to the right, a young and beautiful brunette in a strapless red velvet gown, with a thick ostrich feather boa, dyed to match, wrapped around her very tan shoulders, gave a sideways glance to the woman in the maid's outfit standing next to her and rolled her eyes. Mrs. White avoided Miss. Scarlet's glance, and moved her own eyes to the skirt of the uniform she wore, giving the starched black material a tug.

"Of course I did," Plum said and blew out the match. "He was the bastard son of my father." The confessed murderer glanced down his hawkish nose to the collected crowd, locking eyes with each, assuring himself of their rapt attention. "And now that he is dead, I no longer have to share the inheritance." The professor gave a slight shrug of one eyebrow, as if there could be no other possible explanation.

The silence lingered for a moment; the only sounds in the room were the Professor's wet sucks on his pipe. Blue gray smoke drifted up toward the ceiling as the witnesses processed what they had just seen, until someone in the crowd slowly began to clap, the noise bringing the others out of their stupor and seconds later, applause filled the conservatory, drowning out the Professors sucking noise and dispelling the smoke.

After a moment, Professor Plum stood, his pipe still clenched between his teeth, and walked to the center of the room, where he was joined by Miss Scarlet, and Mrs. White, as well as the other members of their troupe.

A roundish sort of a man, with watery gray eyes, built like a former football player who'd long ago given up on working out, stepped up next to Miss Scarlet. A strip of a halo of hair formed around the baldness at the top of his head. He ran a thick palm over his scalp, his hand coming away with sweat dripping from his fingers. He hastily wiped his hand on the trousers of the dark olive colored suit he wore and clasped Scarlets hand, entwining her fingers with his own, his still damp palm staining the red silk of her evening gloves. Scarlet smiled tightly, scanned the applauding crowd before firmly tugging her hand out of his grasp.

On the other side of Scarlet, a tall man sauntered up and held his arms out to the crowd, as if he would like to pull them all into one great hug, showing his gratitude for the continuing applause. His light tan slacks matched his jacket. The breast of the jacket was decorated with gold medals shaped like stars hanging from colorful ribbons and spoke of far away battlefields and hard won wars. A sculpted nose sat in the middle of his face, atop a very bushy handle bar mustache, white with age.

Mrs. Peacock was the next to last to arrive to the line, taking her place between Col. Mustard and Professor Plum. The blue-green plums protruding from her pointed hat jiggled as she nodded enthusiastically to the crowd, tickling Col Mustard's face, making him squint, the creases around his eyes becoming evident. He raised a hand in thanks to the crowd, at the same time brushing away the offending feathers. Mrs. Peacock brought her fingertips to her lips, the astonishment of offending him quickly giving way to amusement and she hid her growing smile behind her sapphire satin-gloved fingers.

A man with bright red hair, dressed in a tuxedo joined the group, standing next to Mrs. White in her maid's uniform, applauded along with the audience, his white gloved hands muffling his applause.

The troupe basked in the ovation for a moment before joining hands, -Scarlet noted with regret that Mr. Greens palm was still moist- and they bowed deeply.

Rising up from the bow, Col Mustard held up a silencing hand and the applause dwindled quietly down, leaving only one set of clapping hands. The clapping man quickly realizing he was the only one still applauding and stopped suddenly, casting an embarrassed glance to his wife, and she swatted his arm with her pocketbook. The Colonel gave the man a sympatric tilt of his head, and then directed his attention back to the general crowd. "Thank you, ladies and gentleman, my fellow players and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts." From the middle of the line, Col Mustard spread out both arms, to include the others to his left and right. "But our hero tonight," he directed his gaze to the armature detective from Minnesota "is you sir. Please, come up here and take your own, well deserved bow."

Slowly, the man emerged from the crowd, staring at Col Mustard reverently. Col Mustard clapped a strong arm around the mans shoulders "Tell us how you solved it my good man!"

"Well…" began the man from Minnesota, his memory suddenly frozen with the fear of being in front of the crowd instead of part of it.

Scarlet slipped away from the line. The heavy velvet fabric of her dress was much to hot for Las Vegas, even with the air conditioning in the rented hotel auditorium blowing full blast, she was still roasting, and intended to get out of that dress soon as possible, preferable, she thought with a sly gin, with someone fun.

With her boa dragging on the floor behind her, Scarlet passed the fireplace; the dead body still sprawled in front of it. With an exaggerated tortured sigh, she strayed from her path and took two steps over to the body on the floor.

She nudged the dead mans back with the toe of her high heeled shoe, "Come on Fred, mystery solved, case closed. We've all taken our bow, you missed it - but I'll let you buy me a drink." Fred didn't move. "Dude, did you fall asleep again?" Scarlet crouched down next to the body and reached out to shake Fred by the shoulder. "Come on man! You get to lie down for half the friggin' night, I wish I got to play the victim!" Scarlet pulled her hand away, the silk of her glove wet, and her first thought was of Mr. Green's sweaty palms, until she looked at her hand, finding not a semi clear stain, but a thick gooey substance covering her fingers. Her brow furrowed in confusion and she glanced back down to Fred.

Then she began to scream.


	2. The Crime Scene

**Chapter Two**

**The Crime Scene**

Gil Grissom stood in the entranceway of the hotel lounge and surveyed the scene.

On one side of the room gathered a group of people, fifteen by Grissoms quick count, dressed casually, like tourists, or Vegas citizens out for what should have been a relaxing evening. Uniformed police officers milled within the group, taking statements and calming fears. The lone clapper from earlier tried earnestly to recall the evening, an officer stood by with a pen poised over his notepad, waiting patiently, but the wife with the pocketbook kept popping her head up over her husbands shoulder, amending and arguing with his statement.

In the far corner, a group of seven stood apart from the larger group, by distance and by dress. These seven, were all dressed head to toe monochromatically, resembling a human rainbow, punctuated at each end with a butler on one side and a maid on the other end, both studies in black. A quizzical look crossed Grissoms face as Jim Brass; captain of the Las Vegas Police Department sidled up next to him.

"Jim," Grissom began "what the hell is this?"

A smile crossed Brass' tired features. "You heard of those murder mystery dinner parties?"

Grissom cocked an eyebrow. He had indeed heard of them, and never could understand the appeal. He nodded once to answer the question.

"Well," Brass continued, "welcome to the Clue version." He pointed at the larger, tourist group, "The audience," his arm moved slightly, gesturing toward the group of seven "the actors," continuing around the room, his point finally landed near the fireplace, " the dead guy; the actor playing John Boddy, his real name was Fred Coast."

"Well, John Boddy was always the dead one in the game," Grissom began slowly; then eyed the group of actors "Jim, I don't remember a butler character in the game."

"Right," Brass consulted his notes "The butler is just for the purposes of tonight's little play. He greets the guests, does a little narration, and then essentially is out of it."

"Excuse me? Excuse me!" The woman in red shook off the grip of a uniformed officer and thundered across the room, her dress swishing with her strides, the boa still trailing behind her. "Are you in charge here?" She looked from Brass to Grissom and back again.

"I'm Captain Brass."

"Look," Scarlet said, "I really need to change clothes," she ran her hands over her hips "this damn thing is making me melt. Can I _please_ go to my room?"

Grissom eyed the traces of blood on her glove and dress from where she'd smeared it. "No, I'm sorry, you can't leave room just yet."

Scarlet stuck her hands on her hips. "Look, this dress is hot and-" she began before Brass cut her off.

"Frankly Scarlet…" he didn't bother to finish and gave Grissom a slight grin when the CSI turned to look at him.

"We will be happy to relieve you of your dress," Grissom told her. She cocked an eyebrow at him. "We'll provide you with something to change into of course," Griss followed up hoping to ease Scarlet's annoyance.

"Hey Griss," Nick Stokes arrived, stopping next to his superior in the entranceway. Scarlet's attitude and posture immediately changed as she eyed the new arrival to their group. She smiled sweetly when he glanced at her.

"Nick," Grissom began, pointing toward the stain on the red dress "would you go out to the truck and find a pair of overalls for Miss Scarlet to change into please."

Nick nodded his head once, and was gone; Scarlet stretched her neck to watch him over Grissoms shoulder.

"Miss?" Grissom got her attention "If you'll just wait right here, CSI Stokes will be right back with something for you to change into."

"Sure," Scarlet said with a coy smile. "I'd wait anywhere for him."

Grissom and Brass exchanged wry glances, and Brass let out a light snort through his nose.

"Shall we go see Mr. Boddy's body?" Grissom asked, pleased with his play on words.

--

Nick felt Scarlets eyes on him as he crossed the lobby, and he unfolded and refolded the coveralls to hang over his arm just to be able to avoid eye contact. When he arrived back in the lounge, he set his field kit down and lifted the camera around his neck up to his eye and snapped Scarlets picture. Kneeling in front of his kit, he took out two swabs. Scanning the room, he caught the eye of Detective Sofia Curtis he waggled a finger at her, beckoning her to join them. "Hold out your hands for me please ma'am," he said to Scarlet as Sophia crossed the room.

Scarlet held out her hand like a princess, as if Nick was about to kiss it. With a slight unbelieving shake of his head, Nick took her wrist and turned her hand over, swabbing the trace of blood still on her skin. Uncapping the second swab, he quickly ran the cotton over the red stain on the dress. Taking out a pen, Nick made some notations on the plastic viles that housed each swab. "What's your name please ma'am?"

"Angela Lucas. But I'm thinking of changing it to Rio Maxmillian."

"L-u-c-a-s?" Nick asked, barely glancing up to see her nod, and he took a moment to write her name on each vile, then glanced up, finding her staring at him.

"Here you go ma'am," he handed her the coveralls and glanced around the room, spying a private bathroom just to his right. He pointed toward it "you can go in there to change. Detective Curtis will accompany you."

"You mean _you're_ not coming in with me?" Scarlet batted her eyelashes at him.

"No ma'am," was all Nick said to her and handed Sophia a few large brown paper bags. "Thanks," he said to her.

Sofia nodded shortly, "No problem. Ma'am?"

With a deep sigh Scarlet passed the two of them sauntering into the restroom, Sofia closing the door behind them.

A moment after the door shut, Catherine and Greg walked into the lounge. Nick lifted his chin in greeting. "Hey guys. Griss is over there," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, then went back to his notes, listening to Catherine chuckle lightly at the sight before her.

Nick was waiting patiently a few minutes later when Sofia opened the bathroom door quickly rolling her eyes as Scarlet huffed her way out of the bathroom.

Stopping in front of Nick, she pulled at the fabric at her hips. "Is _this _the best you could do?" The coveralls hung loosely on her, obviously to big and hiding her figure.

Nick nodded once, avoiding Sofia's amused glance "Yes ma'am, sorry."

Scarlet huffed again; hoping the heave of her breasts would change his mind. When it didn't work, she tried another tactic. "So I can go now, right?"

"No. You can't," Sofia spoke up. "Please rejoin your group, we'll take your statement shortly."

Scarlet set her mouth to an irritated grimace and stalked away.

Sofia shook her head, looking around the room and handed Nick the paper bag.

"Thanks," he told her again, writing Angela's name on the evidence tags.

"Rio Maxmillian?" Sofia repeated the possible stage name with amusement in her voice.

Nick grunted out a laugh through his nose, and moved his head closer to hers; speaking in a tone low enough only she could hear. "Sounds like a porn stars name, doesn't it?"

Sofia smiled slightly, "That would fit with the tattoo on her lower back." Nick lifted a questioning eyebrow. "It says 'Wanna Ride?'" She finished, answering his unspoken question.

Nick shook his head slowly and got back to work.


	3. The Suspects Part One

**Chapter Three **

**The Suspects **

**Part One**

"Hello Al," Grissom greeted the coroner, Al Robbins, as the doctor pulled himself up on his metal crutches and stretched his back.

"Gil, Jim" Robbins nodded to each man.

"What're you doing here?" Grissom asked, already knowing the answer.

"David's on the scene of a car accident, it'll be hours before he's free."

"There's not much blood," Brass noted, staring at the head wound, and the one small but smeared patch of blood on the victims shoulder.

"No, there's not." Doc agreed.

"TOD?" Grissom asked.

"Two, maybe three hours, there's no rigor yet." Doc consulted his watch. "Would have been not long after the start of the show."

Grissom narrowed his eyes a bit. "You know what time the show started? Have you been doing my job?"

Doc shook his head. "My wife had tickets for next weeks performance; she's a Dicky Burton fan; another reason I came to this one, she'd have killed me if I hadn't."

"Dicky Burton?" Brass asked and turned to see if he could decipher the once famous face from the crowd of actors.

"Yeah, he was a matinee idol in the 60's," Robbins clarified. "My wife watches his movies when they're on the Late Late Show."

"I've seen some of them," Grissom nodded and turned his attention to the body on the floor. "The wound on the back of his head COD?"

Doc packed his equipment back into his black satchel. "Possibly. I'll know more once I do the autopsy." He clicked his bag shut and pointed toward the mantel above the fireplace. "You might want to check that, think it might be what caused the wound."

Brass was closer to the fireplace; he stepped around the body, and immediately saw what the doc was talking about. There was a reddish stain on the base of one of the items sitting on the mantel. Brass pulled a latex glove out of his pocket and picked up the item, holding it out for Grissoms inspection.

Gil narrowed his eyes "You've got to be kidding me."

Brass tilted his head, a smirk on his lips as he looked again at the smooth silver candlestick in his hand.

--

"Hey," Catherine greeted from a few steps behind Grissom. "Let me guess; in the library with the candlestick?"

Gil finished sealing the evidence bag and glanced up to Catherine's grinning face, Greg stood next to her, shifting his kit from one hand to the other. "Actually, this is supposed to be the conservatory." Grissom corrected.

"I stand corrected." Catherine rebutted with a slight grin.

"What's the difference?" Greg asked.

"One is for books, one is for music," Grissom answered him.

"Ok," Greg sounded as if he was sorry he asked, and glanced to Catherine as she turned to offer him a sympathetic smile. Greg glanced down to the body, Grissom watched him inspecting the wound. "Head wound," Greg announced, and glanced up checking first one, then the second group of people. "How'd someone hit him without getting blood on themselves?"

"First hit's free," Catherine told him "and sometimes once is enough."

Greg crouched to get a closer look. After a moment, he opened up his kit and pulled out a long handled swab and swiped it against the back of the dead mans neck, a few inches away from the wound, through a wet mass.

Grissom arched an eyebrow at Catherine and the two more experienced CSI's kneeled down. "Whatcha got?" Catherine asked.

Greg shrugged. "Looks like a glob of spit," he said as he snapped closed the cap onto the plastic shield protecting his find.

"Good," Grissom said tiredly, "that means we get to collect DNA samples as well. Greg, I need you to help Nicky collect and photograph everyone in the audience." He pointed at the larger group of tourists; Nick was setting up a fingerprinting station on a side table. "Cath, you and I will take the actors."

--

"Dicky Burton," Col Mustard introduced himself, puffing out his chest. "Perhaps you remember me from _The Wrong Girl_ or _Beach Slumber Party?_"

Brass nodded, "Of course." He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and held it over the open notebook in his hand. "What can you tell me about the victim?"

"Fred?" Dicky Burton asked. "Well," he gave it some thought as he pulled off the mustache. "This was his show…" he spread his arms wide "he came up with the idea, cast each and every one of us…even wrote the script himself."

"Who'd want him dead?" Brass asked, getting to the heart of the matter.

Dicky shrugged. "Wouldn't know. I didn't, I know that much..." He looked away, giving off a vibe Brass felt needed another question.

"Sounds like you're losing something other than a cast member …"

"Well…" the older actor moved his head and looked Brass in the eye. "Parts are tough to come by and I've had difficulties over the years…" Brass nodded, he'd heard the gossip about the former movie idols drinking and woman troubles, and he sympathized. "Truth is Capitan, I need the work, and Fred was the only one giving me a chance. I thought if I could prove myself stable, I might start landing some parts again."

Brass nodded again, and felt Grissom and Catherine at his elbow. "Dicky Burton, Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows, from the crime lab. They'll need to take your fingerprints and photo."

"Well, if it's a photo you want, I've got some in my room…um, whom shall I make it out to?"

"No. We'll take one of our own, but thank you," Grissom said politely as he lifted the camera, and waited a moment while Dicky situated himself and gave the camera the perfect movie star smile.

Catherine chuckled as moved away toward an empty table to set up the finger printing station.

"You know," Dicky began "there's a part that my agent is trying to get me a reading for, a chap much like yourself, with all the fingerprints and such. New television show. Mind if I tag along? Might give me a leg up on the audition."

Grissom blinked. Brass held his hand to his mouth holding in a laugh. After a moment, Grissom regained himself. "Yes. Yes I do mind."

"Oh. Very well…" Dicky looked away, very hurt.

"Open wide please," Grissom smiled as he held up a swab.

--

"Mr. Green, I presume?" Catherine said to the balding man in the olive green suit.

"Kenneth Ashcraft," he corrected her, running his hand over his scalp.

"Ok, Mr. Ashcraft," Catherine took his hand in hers, feeling the dampness of his scalp sweat on his flesh. "Could you relax your hand for me please?" She rolled his fingers over the black ink then on the card she'd written his name on.

"So, Fred's really dead, huh?"

Catherine lifted her eyebrows as she worked. "'Fraid so."

"And he was dead during the whole show?" Ashcraft's watery eyes filled with what might have been the beginnings of tears.

She shook her head once, "We won't know when he was killed until our coroner does the autopsy." She set his card on the table and handed him a tissue. "When did you last see him alive?"

"Well, let me think," Kenneth wiped his hands, then used the tissue to dry his scalp, leaving a smudge of black ink. "He's supposed to lay down by the fireplace during an argument between Mrs. White and Miss Scarlet about twenty minutes into the play. The audience is distracted, you see, by the augment. Not long after, Mrs. Peacock 'discovers' the body and screams, thus beginning the mystery."

Catherine nodded. "And you never saw anyone approach the body after that?"

"Well, sure. Everyone goes near the body at one point or another. Even the audience."

Catherine licked her lips and smiled wanly. "Great."

--

"I don't know why we have to be fingerprinted," the wife with the pocketbook whined. "We didn't kill him."

"Ma'am, we just need to know who touched what." Nick answeredneutrally as he tried to rollher stiff fingers over the card.

"Well," she huffed, "we didn't kill him and I can prove it."

"How's that?"

She held up her camera. "I took video."

--

"Your name please?" Grissom asked brushing away the plums from Mrs. Peacock's hat.

"Patty Martinelli. Patricia. Oh, sorry." She reached up and pulled the hat off her head, holding it in her hand, the feathers sticking straight out brushing against Gils stomach. Grissom took a step to the side, away from the feathers.

"Look into the camera please." Grissom snapped her photo. "We've been told that in the play, your character discovers the body, is this true?"

"Yes…I didn't know he was really dead, I thought the blood was just something Fred had added without telling me…"

"Did you touch the body?"

"Ah…" she put her fingers to the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes tightly, "No, no I didn't. I'm supposed to walk toward the bar," she opened her eyes and used the pinching fingertips to point to the bar on the far side of the room "but I see the body before I get there, and scream. Much like Angela did."

"Angela?" Grissom cocked a questioning eyebrow.

"Scarlet," Patty explained as she pulled off her sapphire gloves. "We were taking our bow, and she left the group, probably going to the bar," she jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the liquor bottles. "A minute later, she screamed. I thought she was going for a second ovation, but when I saw her, I knew something was _really_ wrong."

"Why's that?" Grissom asked

"Because she's not that good of an actress." Patty deadpanned.

* * *

Thank you, rojajiand AlwaysWrite05for the reviews, I'm glad you're enjoying the story. 


	4. The Suspects Part Two

**Chapter Four**

**The Suspects **

**Part Two**

The flash blinded the armature detective from Minnesota, and he blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes. Greg took the camera away from his own eye and cocked his head "Sorry 'bout that." Letting the camera rest against his chest, Greg took a step closer to the man. "Your name please?"

"Van Der Well – Cameron Van Der Well," said the man from Minnesota. "I just came to the show, if I'd have known someone was really gonna die, I wouldn't have come."

Greg did his best to hide a small grin. "I'm sure the victim wouldn't have come tonight either if he'd known."

Van Der Well shifted his feet, embarrassed by his own statement. "I only came to the show 'cause of Dicky Burton. I'm a huge Dicky Burton fan…" he smiled at the mention of his idols name.

Greg nodded, not really agreeing, he actually had no idea who Dicky Burton was, but didn't want to admit it. "You solved the murder – the fake murder?"

Van Der Well nodded. "I was a little disappointed that Dicky wasn't the, ah, how do you people say it, 'perp'?"

"No, actually, we don't say that." Greg corrected him.

"Oh, well, Professor Plum did it, the fake murder I mean, although I suppose he could have been the real one too…"

Greg held up a hand, "One thing at a time, ok?"

Van Der Well nodded and licked his lips. "Yeah. Ok."

"What do you remember seeing?"

The armature detective stared off, his eyes unfocused as he replayed the evening in his head. Greg glanced around, wondering if anyone was watching. After a moment Cameron spoke up. "Dicky was wonderful! He accused Scarlet of the murder"

"The fake murder, right?"

"Right, but she didn't do it. Mrs. Peacock was her alibi."

"For the fake murder." Greg clarified.

"Right. Have you ever noticed how Dicky holds his martini glass?" Cameron began to gush. "He holds the base, I've always found that very elegant-"

Greg cut him off. "What can you remember that pertains to the actual murder sir?"

Cameron blinked. "Um…" He shook his head "Nothing, really."

--

"Look," said Corky Miller as she tugged at the sleeve of the maid's uniform costume "if I'd known there was going to be a real murder, I'd have paid attention."

Brass sighed tiredly as he lifted his pen off his notebook and his hands fell to his sides. "You didn't see anything out of the ordinary?"

"I've got a commercial in LA, one of those ones that tells a story, ya know? It's five spots, I've been in this business a long time, and long ago gave up the dream of the A list, but this commercial was my ticket away from crap like this. Tonight was my last performance, and I was just going through the motions, ya know?" She pulled at her skit "Besides, there's to much damn starch in this thing, and it's itching the hell outa me."

"Ok," Brass said patiently "tell me about your co-workers."

She cocked her head, giving him a look that said 'you've got to be kidding me'. When Brass didn't acquiesce, she took a deep sigh of her own. "Fine. Angela –Scarlet- is a drunken slut. A real party girl, ya know? She'd fancy herself an ingénue, if she knew the word. She sleeps with any man she thinks can move her up the food chain, and even some that can't."

"She sleep with Fred?"

Corky shrugged. "From what I hear, she tried. Fred let himself into his room one night to find her naked on his bed."

Brass cocked an eyebrow at the image.

"Freddie made her leave."

"Was he was gay?" Brass asked the most obvious question.

Corky shrugged. "Dunno. But boy, was Angela pissed. No man had ever said no to her before."

That caught Brass' attention. "What else can you tell me?"

She looked around the room, looking for her next subject. "Patty's ok, she's a normal person, got a husband and a couple kids, boys I think. Not a professional, really, just does this as a hobby, something to do."

"Patty?" Brass asked for clarification.

"Mrs. Peacock."

Both their gazes traveled to the woman in the blue green dress. Done with her fingerprinting and interview, Patty had nestled herself back into the group of her fellow actors, standing near Dicky Burton who absently fingered his mustache. As they watched, Burton again brushed away the feathers attached to Patty's hat, and cast an irritated glance toward the woman before he moved away. Patty began to giggle; hiding her smile behind her gloved hand, until a uniformed officer walked in front of her and she remembered one of her co-workers was dead. The giggle died in her throat, the smile slipping away from her face. She took the hat off her head and held it in her hands near her stomach, the only sign of respect she could think of.

Corky turned back to the captain. "What about Dicky Burton?" Brass asked.

She blushed slightly. "I've known Dicky a long time. Well…we're not close friends or anything, but I was in _Bikini Bingo_ with him. He didn't remember me…." Corky frowned, the creases around her eyes giving Brass an indication of her true age. She glanced up, her tone changed to one of defending her fellow actor. "I've changed a lot since then, I was much younger in those days," she ran her hands over her slightly plump middle.

"Weren't we all?" Brass offered with a reassuring smile.

She smiled gratefully back at him. "Dicky wants back in. He's had some problems, but he's cleaned himself up, he keeps talking about some TV drama he wants to read for, some procedural crime thing, but Fred wouldn't let him out of his contract, he wanted a star name for this piece of crap, even a faded star."

Brass took notes as she spoke, jotting down his ideas as well as what she was telling him. So far she'd given him to good suspects. He finished a thought and looked up at her. "What about Professor Plumb?"

"Ah, Teddy," she glanced over, finding the man with Catherine, being fingerprinted.

"Teddy..." Brass fished for his last name.

"Simpson, Theodore Simpson." Corky shrugged. "He keeps to himself, he's very bookish, likes to quote Shakespeare, ya know?"

"Yeah," Brass gave her half a smile, "I know the kind of guy you mean."

--

"Could you relax your hand please sir?" Catherine asked Teddy Simpson for the second time.

His head was turned away from her, and he blinked at the sound of her voice, moving his eyes toward her, focusing in like he hadn't seen her before. "I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

Catherine repeated herself yet again, and was a little surprised when he actually reacted to her request, pulling his hand free from her grasp and shaking it out before offering it back to her relaxed and ready for her to roll each finger over the inkpad.

His eyes and attention drifted away again, his gaze finding something deep within himself, and he mumbled something softly. Catherine was concentrating, and didn't catch it. "I'm sorry" she said, "what was that?"

Without looking at her, Simpson repeated, "_'Murder most foul, as in the best it is, but this most foul, strange, and unnatural_.'" He looked at her, misunderstood her expression for one of confusion. "Hamlet"

"Un huh," she handed him a tissue to wipe the ink off his fingertips. "I have another famous quote for you."

"Yes?" He asked, very interested.

She lifted the camera up to her eye, "Say cheese," she said as she snapped the picture.

"Very funny." Simpson said, but at least she had his attention.

"So, tell me," Catherine began, grabbing his attention before she lost it again "who would want to kill Fred?"

"That's the thing, isn't it? I've been thinking about it, and I just don't know."

"You have no idea?" Catherine asked surprised, usually a suspect was all for giving up other people's secrets if it meant taking the CSI's eyes off them. She held up a swab and he somehow understood he was to open his mouth for her.

After she'd scraped the inside of his mouth, he made a face as if he smelled something bad and shook his head. "No. No idea actually. I don't," he flicked his fingers as if ridding himself of a distasteful substance, "get involved in others matters. I keep to myself."

Catherine cocked an eyebrow at him. "Surely you must have some -pardon the pun- clue, as to who might have motive to kill Fred."

Simpson gave it some more thought, even going as far as to curl the fingertips of one hand under his chin.

Catherine smiled wryly, _oh this guy's good_.

After what he thought was enough time, he shook his head. "No, not to overtax the pun, but, not a _clue_."

--

"Wayne," the butler said.

"And your last name please?" Nick asked.

"Wayne," he repeated, a small smile on his face.

"Ok," Nick was tired and irritated. "Your first name please."

Wayne's grin widened. "Wayne."

"Look-" Nick held his pen like a pointer, ready to bounce it off the butler's chest.

"My name;" he paused dramatically for effect "Is Wayne Wayne."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Nope. My father had a strange sense of humor."

"Ok, Mr.…Wayne. Can you tell me your roll in the play please?"

From his change in body language, it was obvious to Nick that Wayne Wayne didn't like his roll. He put his hands on his hips before he spoke. "I'm the butler."

Nick waited a moment, thinking there would be more, but when there wasn't any forthcoming, he prodded the actor. "I ah, I don't remember there being a butler in the game."

"That's true, there isn't one." Nick cocked an eyebrow, tiring quickly of this little game. Wayne took the hint and continued. "In my roll as the butler, I escort the guests in, advise them on the setting, who John Boddy - that was Fred's character- is and why the other characters are here. Then I just fade into the background, serving drinks once in a while."

"Sounds like you don't like your role much."

His hands came off his hips as Wayne squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "I'm a better actor than the role requires."

"I've heard that there are no small roles, only small actors." Nick offered.

Wayne's face fell into a blank slate, and he seemed to recoil at the words. "Yes," he deadpanned, obviously finding the thought distasteful, "I've heard that too."


	5. The Evidence

**Chapter Five**

**The Evidence**

"The head wound is superficial." Doc Robbins told Grissom as they stared down at the body on the steel table in the morgue. "At the scene, it looked as if it was deep enough to have caused death, but now that I've shaved his head…" Doc pulled out a measuring instrument and stuck it into the wound, the raw flesh squelching as it yielded to the intrusion of the metal rod.

Grissom bent down, eye level with the wound. Doc was right, the gaping hole in the skull wasn't deep enough to have caused death. The CSI stood up, listening as the doctor continued. "If he was conscience, then the blow would have enough to have knocked him out. But he was probably already dead when the candlestick made contact."

"That explains the lack of blood." Grissom noted, speaking mostly to himself.

"Umm hmm."

"So what did kill him?"

"His heart and lungs are healthy, no tumors or diseases. There are no other wounds on the body, no ligature marks. I did send his blood to the lab, maybe Henry will find something."

Grissom looked at his watch wondering if the lab tech had had enough time to run the tests. "Ok, thanks Al."

--

Nick sat alone in the AV lab, the pictures from Grissoms camera just finished loading, he slipped Catherine's photo card in and still had Greg's to upload, as well as his own.

"Hey," said a deep voice from the doorway.

Nick easily recognized the baritone of his best friend, without turning, Nick answered, "Hey Rick. How'd your B&E go?"

Warrick shrugged and sauntered up to the desk standing just behind Nick and peering over his shoulder. Grissoms photos of Col Mustard and Mrs. Peacock were on the screen, and, as Warrick watched, Cath's pictures of Mr. Green and Professor Plum popped up next to them. "Where the hell have you been?"

Nick snorted out a laugh and turned in his chair to face his friend. "You play Clue as a kid?"

Warrick's eyes lit up with recognition. "Yeah, ok." He propped one hand on the edge of the table and leaned in getting a better look at the screen. "So, what is this, another Sherlock role play thing?"

Nick shook his head. "Not exactly. You ever been to one of those murder mystery things? You know where the audience gets to participate, and then guess who the murderer is?"

"Yeah," Warrick nodded grimly, "a date made me go to one of them a couple of years ago."

"How'd it go?"

Warrick grunted out a laugh "Had it solved before the guy was even dead."

Nick laughed. "Yeah, well, this was that kind of thing, only the suspects are playing the characters from the game."

Warrick's expression shifted into one of appreciation, "Yeah, ok, I get it. So who ended up dead?"

"The actor playing the victim."

"Really?" Warrick asked. "The wrench? The rope? The candlestick?"

Nick pointed a finger at the last one. "Bingo."

Warrick held back a laugh, "Really?"

"No, not really," said a new voice from the doorway.

Both CSI's turned to find Grissom walking into the room. "Robbins says the blow to the back of the head wasn't the COD."

"So what was?" Nick asked and popped out Cath's picture card, loading his own.

"He doesn't know."

Nick cocked an eyebrow at him in response.

"Henry's got the victims blood, I'm headed there now." Grissom turned his attention to the computer screen. Scarlets picture popped up. She'd posed like the starlet she thought herself to be, slightly turned to the left, giving the camera a look that was usually left to the privacy of bedrooms. Gris pointed at the picture. "She's bad news Nicky, not to mention a suspect. Stay away from her."

Nick twitched his head toward his boss, aghast at the idea. "I happen to agree, Grissom. The thought never entered my mind."

Grissom nodded as he stood "Good," he said simply and headed out the door.

Warrick clapped a hand on Nick's shoulder. "The thought never entered your mind? Com'on man, tell me the truth."

Nick grinned embarrassed. "Well, one or two thoughts, at first, maybe. But once I talked to her…" he shook his head. "No way man."

"That bad?"

"She's the kind of girl my momma warned me about."

--

Grissom entered the Print Lab, pausing in the doorway, watching the back of the brunette who sat on the stool next to the table. She was hunched over, thoroughly engrossed by her work, and her lack of response told him that she was oblivious of his presence.

"Sara," he began quietly announcing is nearness.

Sara Sidle flinched at the sound of his voice breaking through her thoughts. She glanced up and offered him a welcoming smile.

"Is that my evidence?" He asked her, concern tugging at his brow.

"Yeah." Sara picked up the candlestick with her gloved hands and held it up for his inspection. "Greg told me about the case, thought I'd lend a hand." She set the candlestick gingerly back down on to the tabletop and picked up the brush, swiping fingerprint powder around the top edge. "Did you ever play it as a kid?"

"Clue?" Grissom asked as he leaned down closer, inspecting the dried blood at the base of the candlestick.

Sara made a face as she set down the brush and turned her head to see if he was teasing or not. "No, Chutes and Ladders."

Grissom smirked at her answer. "Did you?"

"I tried a few times with some of the other foster kids, but eventually they'd stop playing with me."

"You won too often." Grissom offered his observation that he knew had to be true.

Sara nodded with a grin, "Yeah, I did."

He quirked a smile at her, pleased with himself that he knew her well. She held her gaze on him a moment to long, and he uncomfortably shifted his eyes away from hers, again studying the candlestick she was working on. "Acceding to Robbins, the head wound isn't the cause of death, but this did cause a wound on the body, we still need to know whose prints are on it."

Sara took her cue and retuned to dusting print powder on to the smooth silver edge, twisting the base with her other hand as she flicked the brush, covering all sides, several smudges emerged, and as Sara twisted to the final side, a clear set of four prints materialized.

Grissom reached to his right, picking up a tape lift and handed her the card, and watched as she pressed the clear plastic against the groves and ridges of the print the black power had revealed, and pulled away the prints from the candlestick.

Sara held it up between them, "Good," Grissom said, "now let's run it, see who might have hit our victim."

Sara took the print card and rolled her chair over to the scanner, where she scanned in the print, inputting the pattern of groves and ridges into the computer, and immediately began the search, comparing the print to those on file.

"Hey, Griss," Nick came into the Print Lab holding two manila folders "hey Sar," he said noticing his brunette co-worker, then turned his attention back to his boss. "I've got the crime scene photos printed out, _and_ Henry's got our tox results back."

"What'd he find?" Grissom asked, as Sara turned in her chair, interested in the results.

"Cyanide." Nick told them.

"Well…" Sara began.

"Yeah, very Agatha Christie, don'tcha think?" Nick smiled slightly.

"And somehow, appropriately cliché." She had a small, pursed grin on her face. Behind her, the computer beeped and she turned back toward it.

"Sara found prints on the candlestick," Grissom told Nick as they both stepped over to look at the results.

"Who's Angela Lucas?" Sara asked, staring at the screen.

Nick put his fingertips to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes "Scarlet," he said despairingly.

"Well, she was been busted for shoplifting…" Sara read from the screen, "charges were dropped."

"Hey, Grissom?" Wendy walked into the lab before Sara had a chance to ask Nick about Scarlet. "Found out who spit on your victim." She handed Grissom the report, "I also found a plethora of DNA hits about half of your suspects, including one tidy bit of information you might be interested in…"

Grissom waited a moment for her to continue, then finally prompted irritated, "Yes?"

"Two of your suspects are related to your victim."


	6. The Motives Col Mustard and Scarlet

**Chapter Six**

**The Motives **

**Col Mustard and Scarlet**

Warrick sipped tea from a Styrofoam cup as he stood next to the water fountain in the hallway and watched Grissom escort Dicky Burton down the hall toward the supervisor's office. Nick walked up next to him, bent at the water fountain taking a long drink. When he stood up, he caught a glimpse of the faded movie star walking into Grissoms office, just before Gil closed the door.

"You ever have seen any of his movies?" Nick asked Warrick, running the back of his hand against his lips.

"I saw that James Bond rip off thing he did."

"Oh, yeah, I saw that one. It was a musical right? I'd forgotten about it."

Warrick huffed out a laugh "Wish I had."

The quick click of heels echoing down the hall stopped Nick from saying anything else. A rail thin brunette in stilettos sauntered down the hall, smiling at the uniformed officers and lab techs that stopped in their tracks to look at her. Angela winked at a rookie officer, and seemed about to approach him before she caught sight of Nick, and changed her path, calling out "Hey!" to him, with a bright flirty smile on her bright red lipsticked lips. She lifted her arm, waving to him with wiggling fingers.

"Oh no," Nick muttered.

"That her?" Warrick asked, studying the girl as she headed toward them.

"Yeah," Nick put his hands on his waist, and glanced around, looking for a quick exit.

"No wonder Griss told me to interview her."

Nick shifted his head, looking at his friend. "Really? Griss told you to take her?"

Warrick nodded slowly.

Nick patted Warrick on the shoulder, wished him good luck, and disappeared down another hallway.

To his right, Warrick heard the clack of the stilettos stop abruptly as Angela watched Nick leave. Warrick turned his head toward her, seeing her up close for the first time.

Easily recognizable from her photo, but she'd changed out of the formless gray overalls into a strapless black mini dress that was anything but formless.

After a moment, Angela began to head off down the hall she'd seen Nick disappear down; Warrick stopped her with his voice. "Miss Lucas?"

She turned, noticing him for the first time, all thoughts of Nick seemed to disappear from her mind, and she shifted her bag in front of her, bringing her elbows closer together, her cleavage popping. "Yes?" She said sweetly.

"I'm Warrick Brown, I'll be conducting your interview."

She tilted her head, and pointed a finger over her shoulder toward the hall Nick had escaped down, "But what about…?"

"CSI Stokes has other business to attend to. Would you come with me please?"

Around the corner, Archie, Hodges and Henry hung out in the doorway to the Trace Lab, failing in their attempt to appear nonchalant. Angela waggled her fingers at them as she and Warrick passed the doorway. "Hey boys," her voice dripped with seduction.

Archie narrowed his eyes as he watched Angela pass.

"Hey, Warrick," Hodges grabbed Warrick sleeve, then quickly released it catching the look the CSI threw him. "Is she the one Stokes called a barracuda?"

"I know her from somewhere." Archie said.

"She's an actress, maybe she's been in a movie or something…" Warrick offered.

In response, Archie's eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers before he quickly turned away from the group and headed back to his own lab.

--

"So, where's the other guy?" Angela asked, hefting her bag on top of the table. A wet black nose, followed by a white snout pressed against the mesh material that covered one end.

Warrick stared into the bag. "What kind of dog is that?"

"East Highlow Terrier…something like that." Angela gently poked a finger at the dog.

"What's his name?" Warrick asked, wondering if she'd even named the poor dog. She didn't seem too enamored with it.

"Blackie," she said, and turned her attention away from the dog straight to Warrick, ignoring the sharp yap of the dog answering when he heard his name. "Usually I take him out of his carrier, but I'm wearing black, and he'd get white hair all over me."

Warrick suddenly felt very sorry for the dog.

"What's the other guys name?" Angela asked, already tired of the conversation about the dog.

Warrick's eyebrows shot up, the topic of conversation changed so quickly, it took him a moment to catch up. "Who? Oh, Nick, he had another suspect to interview."

"Nick, huh?" She rolled his name around her mouth like she was tasting it on for size.

"Miss," Warrick began, trying to steer the subject away from his friend.

"Wait," Angela had been caught up in Nick's name, she hadn't exactly heard Warrick's other words, "am _I_ a suspect?"

"Yes ma'am. Everyone -"

"Suspected of what?"

Warrick blinked. "Of the murder of your co-worker, Fred Billingsley."

"Oh," she said, her voice full of boredom. "That. I didn't kill him." She said it like that should be the end of the conversation.

Warrick suppressed a groan. Nick had been right; this chick was a piece of work. "We found your fingerprints on the candlestick that caused a head wound on the victim." He purposely left out the part that the head wound was not the cause of death.

"My fingerprints on the candlestick? Well, yeah, I hold it during the show, I threaten Mrs. Peacock with it."

Warrick slipped a print of the photo Nick took of her at the scene out of the file folder in front of him. "Is this your costume?'

"Yep. I hate that dress, it's-"

Warrick cut her off. "This is what you wear during the play?"

"Yes," she drew the word out slowly, as if he were having trouble understanding her.

"You're wearing gloves," he pointed out to her, just as slowly.

"So?"

"So…you shouldn't have left any fingerprints because you're wearing gloves."

Angela opened her mouth to answer, but a rap on the door stopped her. Warrick turned in his chair, expecting Brass or Grissom, but it was Archie's head that popped through the door. Warrick's eyes narrowed and he had the fleeting thought that the building must be on fire for Archie to interrupt an interrogation. "Arch?"

"Hey, Rick, sorry to interrupt, but there's something you need to see." Archie moved his head, motioning for Warrick to join him in the hall.

With a sigh of resignation, Warrick slid his chair back and joined Archie in the hall. "This better be good."

Archie nodded, "Remember how I said I knew her from somewhere? Well, I remembered from where." He handed Warrick a DVD case.

"Rowdy Girls?"

"Check out the pictures on the back."

Warrick turned the case over, and studied the photos of the half naked women. His eyes narrowed when he found the one Archie meant.

"That's our girl."

"Sure is," Archie said with a smile.

--

Grissom sat on his side of the desk, contemplating where to begin. The ageing actor pondered the jars and books on the shelves lining the office, his hands joined behind his back as he peered closer to one specimen he couldn't decipher. "Fascinating, really," Dicky Burton muttered then turned around to glance at Grissom. "Do all you fellows have these…" he turned back to the shelves "whatcamacallits in your offices, or is it just you?"

Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Mr. Burton," he began.

"I mean, do you read all these?" Dicky tapped the glass jar that housed a creature eternally bathing in formaldehyde. "Call me Dicky," he added as an afterthought.

"Would you not touch those please?" Grissom was growing more impatient by the moment.

With an apologetic shrug of his shoulders, Dicky moved on, turning his attention to a stack of books piled next to the jars and began to slide out one of the thicker books, changed his mind and choose a thinner one instead.

"Mr. Burton, we have a lot to discuss, would you sit down please."

Dicky reluctantly crossed over to the front of Grissoms desk and settled himself into one of the two chairs. He crossed his legs, folded his hands neatly in his lap, and looked to Grissom expectantly. "About Freddie, of course."

"Yes…" Grissom began, again wondering where to begin. He lifted his chin just a little, deciding on his line of questioning. "How long did you know Fred?"

Dicky tiled his head back a little, looking toward the ceiling "Oh, let's see now…" he looked as if the florescent lights would give him the answer, he brought his head back down, looking Grissom in the eye. "About seven months, I suppose…perhaps as many as nine. He contacted me shortly after my birthday…" Grissom glanced down to the file in front of him, Dicky's birthday had been eight months previous. "He was very excited about this play of his, you've no idea. I honestly had never heard of Clue, had to go get one for myself, see what it was all about."

"And then you signed on to join the cast." Grissom prompted.

"No, no I signed on immediately. I got the game to find out what I'd gotten myself into."

"So…" Grissom redirected conversation back to its original path. "You knew the victim for eight months?"

"Yes, about that."

"Never met him before?"

Dicky gave a facial shrug. "Not that I know of… I suppose it's _possible_ that he once asked for an autograph or photo, but, no, I never _met_ him, where'd I know his name."

Gil narrowed his eyes, studying the other man. He believed him.

--

"Your fingerprints?" Warrick asked, settling back into his chair across from Angela, urging her back into his line of questioning.

"What about them?" Angela asked, checking her fingernails for the slightest mar.

Warrick moved his chair in closer to the table; the movement and squeaking of the chair legs on the floor got her attention. One of his hands wrapped around the other, his fingers messaging the back of his other hand and he leaned in. "Why are your fingerprints on the weapon when your character wears gloves?"

Angela sighed deeply, Fred's death was becoming much to boring for her, she decided. "I picked up the candlestick before the show, and moved it to the mantel, so it'd be there when I had to pick it up to threaten Mrs. Peacock with it."

Warrick looked her in the eye, it was a plausible explanation, he had to admit, so he decided to try the surprise tactic. "Tell me about your shoplifting charge."

Angela's mouth fell open. "That was supposed to be sponged from my record."

Warrick would have laughed if it weren't so sad. "The term is _expunged_, and the charges might have been dropped, but there's still a record of your arrest." Warrick flipped the arrest report around so she could see it. Her eyes widened as she stared at it.

He gave her a moment, then resumed his questioning. "It says you stole a blouse."

"Yeah," she said quietly.

"Why'd they drop the charges?"

She paled, her eyes darting around the room. Warrick thought she might be looking for an escape hatch. After a moment, she moved her gaze to his, and her eyes filled with tears. Very suddenly, Warrick thought, as if she flipped an interior switch, the tears were there, but there was no real emotion behind them. The dog in the bag seemed to pick up on her sniffing and whined twice.

"My daddy promised me there wouldn't be any record. He paid the store, you shouldn't know about it."

"Your daddy?" Warrick asked.

She glanced at her fingers and fidgeted in her seat. _There _was the real emotion, Warrick thought.

"He's a very powerful man. I'm not supposed to get in trouble anymore."

"Powerful?"

"He has God on his side." Angela sounded as if she was mimicking words she'd heard thousands of times. Warrick's eyebrows shot up and Angela continued. "He's a preacher." Getting no recognition out of Warrick, she explained further. "He's on TV."

An image popped into Warrick's head, a televangelist his grandmother would sometimes watch on Sunday mornings. A portly man who would pace the stage like a riled panther, grasping the microphone with sausage fingers shouting about how Jesus would save your soul, if only you sent in enough money.

"Williamson Lucas is your father?"

Angela nodded. Now that Warrick had broken though her false exterior, he pulled out the big guns.

"So, I guess he doesn't know about this then?" He slid the DVD across the table so it rested in front of her.

Angela looked up, and met his eyes. "Where did you get that! Did you find that in Fred's room?"

Warrick lifted his head in surprise. "Fred knew about this?"

"Yeah. He threatened to tell my daddy."

"What would he have gained by that?"

She sighed deeply. "I wanted to quit that crappy play. The dress was to hot and it was just a stupid idea. And I don't have enough lines to say. Fred threatened to tell my daddy about the DVD so I'd have to stay with the show."

"Your dad sends you money?" Warrick guessed, and Angela nodded. "And that would have stopped had he learned about the DVD." She nodded again and looked at her hands.

"Angela-" he got her attention, "that's motive."

--

"Mr. Burton," Grissom found a topic he thought the actor wouldn't mind. "This part that you're up for-"

"You've heard something? My agent hasn't called me in months…" Dicky sat forward in the chair in his excitement.

"No, you told me about it, at the hotel." Grissom explained, and Dicky deflated back into his seat.

"Ah, yes," Dicky said, remembering "well, I'm not actually up for it, just hoping for an audition."

Grissom nodded once in his understanding. "Wouldn't that have meant leaving the Clue mystery?"

Dicky paused; Grissom could tell he was choosing his words carefully, "Well, I'd prefer to fulfill my contract, obviously."

"Of course."

"So, Fred and I came to an agreement." He paused; swallowing so hard Grissom could see his adam's apple bob. "I would fulfill my contract, and if that meant passing on the TV drama," he held up is hands in a giving up gesture "then so be it."

Grissoms chin lifted just a bit, and his eyes narrowed. "You asked to follow me around very shortly after Fred's death."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I did." Dicky agreed.

"You didn't waste any time making plans now that you've been released from your contract."

"Well…" Dicky began, and Grissom gave him a moment, but the actor never finished the thought.

"You're agreement with Fred seemed a little one sided, in Fred's favor."

"I wouldn't say that…as I was telling your captain earlier, I was hoping to re-establish my reputation with this job…so actually…the longer the play ran…the better off I was."

Grissom thought that Dicky was remembering the words, as if someone, perhaps the victim, had said them to Dicky as reasons for his staying with the play. "Mr. Burton, did Fred blackmail you into staying with the production?"

Dicky's eyes grew wide for the slightest moment. "Why ever would you say that?"

Grissom didn't answer the question. "Did he?"

"Yes." Dicky sighed deeply. "Told me that if I even went to the audition, that he'd call the producers, tell them I was drinking again, forgetting my lines…. He was going to ruin everything that I'd worked so hard for…and all for some absurd little show that's one step up from dinner theater."

"And either way, you'd have to stay."

Dicky nodded tiredly.

"And now that he's dead, you're free to pursue the audition."

Again, Dicky nodded, and only after a moment passed did he realize what it was Grissom was implying. The color drained out of his face, "I may have wanted him dead, but didn't kill him."

Grissoms eyes narrowed again, not so sure he believed him anymore.


	7. The Motives Mr Green and Mrs Peacock

**Chapter Seven**

**The Motives**

**Mr. Green, Mrs. Peacock and The Butler**

Sara watched Warrick escort Angela down the hall, and put her in the waiting room. As she watched Angela swish down the hall, Sara could swear that the tote bag hanging off her shoulder moved.

"Mr. Wayne," Sara got the red haired actors attention, "would you follow me please?" Sara stepped into the interrogation room doorway and held out her arm, directing the actor to take a seat.

Wayne stepped past her, stopping just inside the doorway looking around the room with a sneer on his face. Only after Sara politely cleared her throat did he sit in the chair she indicated. Sara settled herself in opposite him and glanced at her notes. When she looked up a moment later, Wayne was staring at her. Sara felt dissected.

"You portray the butler, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct. And, I know what you're going to say, everyone says it." He let out an exaggerated sigh, "No, there wasn't a butler in the game. It was an additive Fred found necessary."

"Ok," Sara said amused. "Now that we've got that out of the way…tell me about your role."

"I escort the guests in, advise them on the setting, who John Boddy - that was Fred's character- is and why the other characters are here. Then I just fade into the background, serving drinks once in a while," he sounded as if he'd said it a thousand times.

"What was your relationship with the victim?" Sara asked, keeping her amusement well hidden.

Wayne huffed out a bitter laugh. "He was a double-crossing, two faced SOB."

_Tell me how you really feel, _Sara thought to herself, but said; "He double-cross you?"

The right side of Wayne's lips twitched in the beginnings of a sneer. "Yeah, he sure did."

"Tell me about it," Sara prodded.

--

Kenneth Ashcraft settled himself onto the break room sofa with a grunt. From the counter, Nick turned around at the noise, giving the round actor the once over before turning back and finished pouring the coffee. "I have to apologize for having to talk in here…" Nick waved one hand, indicating the break room "All the offices and interrogation rooms are taken, we'll have to make do." As he spoke he made his way over to the couch and handed Kenneth a cardboard cup of hot coffee. The cup slipped in the actor's sweaty hands, waves of the hot coffee sloshed over the rim and onto Ashcraft's hands, making him curse softly under his breath.

"Ok, hold on, hold on." Nick stepped back up to the break room counter and grabbed a handful of napkins. He returned to the couch where Ashcraft sat with his hand held up and away from himself, hovering in mid air, and handed the napkins over. "Here ya go." Nick picked up the manila folder he'd left on the table earlier, and pulled a chair away from the table, maneuvering it directly in front of the actor. They might be in the break room, but he was going to make this as interrogation-like as he could manage.

"Thanks," Kenneth took the napkins and dabbed up the spilled coffee on the back of his hand. "I'm not usually such a klutz, but I'm a little nervous."

Nick offered him a calming smile, "If you're innocent, there's no reason to be nervous."

"Oh I am, I am. I didn't kill him." Ken protested, his watery eyes glistening and he dabbed at his sweaty head with the coffee stained napkins bunched in his hand.

"Tell me about the play." Nick began.

"What would you like to know?" Kenneth asked, eager to help in any way.

"Tell me how you got involved."

"Well…" Kenneth began and took a sip of coffee while he thought of where to begin. "I met Freddie in a bar one night,"

_Oh God _thought Nick.

"He was crying in his beer -so to speak- and telling me about this wonderful idea he had for a show, said it was going to blow the roof off of the industry…but that much like all great ideas, it'd never see the light of day."

"Why's that?" Nick asked when it seemed as if Kenneth wasn't going to explain any further.

"Money. Or lack thereof that is. Freddie couldn't find any backers."

"Were you in a position to help him out?"

"Well…" he sipped his coffee again, "as a matter of fact, yes. I'd just received a tidy sum from my job…a bonus if you will… I have no family, so, yes, I had the money to offer him."

Nick sat back in his chair unbelieving "You gave a guy you met in a bar enough money to finance a show like this?"

"Well, I'd been looking for something you see….I hadn't been too proud of my life, with no kids, I'd been wondering who was going to remember me after I'm gone."

A thought occurred to Nick, and he flipped through the file in his hands, he found the actors birth date and did the math quickly in his head. Kenneth turned 45 last year. _Mid life crisis_ Nick thought.

"It's not at all like you're thinking. I didn't write him a check then and there. I saw this as opportunity knocking, and believe you me, I answered the door! But I still had my lawyers and accountants; go over it all, and everything seemed to beon the up and up."

"Seemed?" Nick asked, picking up on the past tense of the word.

--

The break room door was closed, and Catherine stared at it for a moment before deciding she'd better not interrupt whatever might be going on in there. She instead filled the two ceramic mugs in her hands at the water fountain, and made her way back to her office.

"Nice décor you've got here," Patty Martinelli told her as she took the mug Catherine offered.

Cath sighed unhappily as she made her way around her desk and moved the collection of duck statues off the desk and onto the credenza behind her. "They're not mine." She said, turning back around to face the actress.

Patty cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't strike me at the fowl fan type."

Catherine smiled at that briefly and sipped her water. She sized Patty up as she swallowed, and had just picked a place to begin when Patty beat her to it.

"I didn't kill him. I hated him, but I didn't kill him."

"You hated him enough to spit on him." Catherine said, relaying the information she'd learned from Grissom.

Patty nodded, a bit sad. "I regret that. If I'd known he was dead, I wouldn't have done that."

Catherine's eyebrows shot up. "You spit on him thinking he was alive?"

The actress' head tilted, "I told you, I hated him."

"Ok," despite herself, Catherine liked the woman, and was enjoying the straightforwardness of the conversation. "Tell me why."

"He killed my sister." Patty said plainly.

Catherine reached for the pen lying on her desk, and held it poised over the notepad. "What was your sisters name?"

"Lucy, Lucy Swan."

Catherine jotted the name down, "How'd she die?"

"Car accident. She ran into a telephone pole."

Catherine set the pen down. "If it was an accident-"

Patty interrupted her. "She'd just had an abortion, at some cheap clinic, the autopsy said she'd been bleeding internally, lost consciousness and crashed."

"What's Fred got to do with that?" Catherine asked.

"It was his baby."

--

Wayne Wayne took a slow, irritated breath. Sara got the impression that he felt it unnecessary to explain anything to her.

"I have a script," he waited a moment for Sara to be impressed, and when she showed no emotion at all, save for a raised eyebrow urging him to continue, he did. "It's a movie script on the life of King George III. Did you know that he once greeted an oak tree as if it was King Frederick William of Prussia? I wrote an extraordinary scene where he -well I would be playing the King- actually _shakes hands _with a branch…"

"Can we get to the double-cross part please?" Sara interrupted before Wayne went on a tangent.

He squared his shoulders, obviously offended. "Of course. Forgive me." He lifted his chin a bit, an air of pride around him, "I approached Fred with the script -which he said he loved- and he said he'd rustle up the financing. But then I never heard another word about it."

"Until…"

"Until I heard him discussing the part with Teddy. _My_ part, in _my_ movie. He was steeling my script, the one I'd worked on for years, poured my blood and sweat into it. It was mine." His voice grew more quiet as he spoke, and his eyes left hers as he stared at his hands. Sara realized he was ashamed and embarrassed for misplacing his trust.

"And now that he's dead, the script is all yours again."

Wayne looked up from his hands and met her eyes again. "Yes. Yes, that's true."

--

"Well…" Kenneth used the wad of napkins to dab at his head again. "Freddie seemed to have _misjudged_ how much it would cost to launch the production….He kept flying to LA, and Burton's demands were a bit excessive, not to mention Angela's room service costs – the girl likes champagne, the expensive kind."

"Your money was running out." Nick finished the thought.

Kenneth nodded emphatically. "And there was none coming in. I'd quit my job…That's when Freddie gave me the part of Mr. Green. Said I was perfect for it, and it'd help cut down on costs, not having to pay another actors salary."

"What about the ticket sales? Surely money was coming in then?"

Kenneth nodded solemnly, "I thought about that, and checked with the hotel's accounting department. They assured me the checks had been cut, even showed me copies of the canceled checks…."

"Fred cashed them, and didn't tell you." Nick finished for him.

"Right."

"So, you're partner who was embezzling, is now dead." Nick concluded.

Kenneth nodded sadly, and mopped his head again.

--

Catherine sucked in her breath. "And you blamed Fred for your sisters death."

Patty nodded, "He killed her as sure as if he'd reached in and ripped out her heart - which he kind of did."

"Lucy loved him?" Catherine guessed.

"She sure did. That girl was working for a Nevada congressman in DC. She met Fred," Patty almost choked on the name, "one trip out when the congressman was running for re-election last year. They had a fling." Patty shrugged, as if that's all she'd thought it had been, just a fling. "Next thing I know, Lucy's quit her job, moved back to Vegas. Couple months later, she's pregnant, and Fred no longer wants anything to do with her."

"And so, the abortion." Catherine prompted.

Patty nodded. "She'd depleted her savings supporting him while he wrote this idiotic play, she had no insurance, she had to go to that place for it."

"About the play," Catherine began "why on Earth did you sign on to work with Fred?"

The actress shook her head, "I didn't know he had anything to do with it. The audition, and then when I signed the contract, it was Kenneth there, and he never mentioned a partner."

"Kenneth," Catherine flipped through her notes.

"Mr. Green…the bald guy. He's the financial backer."

Catherine lifted her chin, remembering the actor. _Yes, of course._

"By the time I knew Fred was involved, I'd already signed the contract. I was stuck with having to look at Freddie's smug face every day."

* * *

_Thank you for all the reviews, Bo, Ash, Svadilfari, rojaji, aboxforpandora__ and witchbsword__ your comments were very heartwarming. _


	8. The Motives Prof Plum and Mrs White

**Chapter Eight**

**The Motives**

**Prof Plum and Mrs. White **

Brass dispensed with any polite formalities and got right to the point. "Fred Coast was your son."

Corky Miller's eyes grew wide, full of astonishment and surprise. "How'd you find out?"

"DNA," the captain said simply.

Corky nodded, "Ya know, I was afraid that might happen."

She had changed out of the costume of the itchy maids uniform and was wearing loose jeans and a light peach colored blouse.

"Why didn't you tell me when I interviewed you?" Brass asked.

"What was the point? I gave him up for adoption right after he was born. I've only known him for about six months. Only found out he was my son just a few weeks ago."

Brass's eyes narrowed, and he took his time with his next question, letting Corky worry over his reaction. "How'd you find out?"

"Fred told me."

"He told you he was your son? How'd he know, if you didn't?"

Corky licked her lips, her eyes finding the corner of Brass' desk. "He told me his mother –his adoptive mother- had pointed me out in one of my old movies."

Brass was confused. "What?"

"I was young when I had him, and back then, things weren't as secretive as they are now. Not as bound up in red tape, ya know?" She shrugged as she explained her actions of all those years ago. "I found out the name of the people who adopted him, and sometimes… Sometimes I'd go check up on him. Make sure they were treating him right."

"You stalked the family?" Brass was almost amused.

"Well, it wasn't called stalking then, but no, that's not what I did. I'd go to the park; his mother took him there almost every day. I started shopping at the same grocery store as she did, it was miles away from my house, just in hopes that I'd get a glimpse of them once in a while."

It sounded like stalking to Brass. "Did the adoptive mother see you?"

Corky shrugged. "She must have." Her eyes found his. "I was at that park a lot."

Brass flipped though the file on his desk, "This was in LA, right?"

"Yes. Then one day, they were just gone. Not at the park. Not at the market. I drove by the house, and there was a for sale sign up." She choked back tears at the memory. "They were gone."

"What happened?"

"I didn't know. I never knew, until…"

"Until Fred told you."

"Right."

"Ok," Brass began, "I'm still confused. How did Fred know you were his biological mother?"

"He told me that his adoptive mother -Sylvia her name was- the agency told her who I was… I wasn't much of a star, but I'd been in a couple of movies, even had a few lines in one of them, and that was a kind of … selling point."

Brass kept quiet, Corky took the hint and continued.

"Anyway, Silvia _had_ seen me at the park, knew that I was keeping an eye on him, and I guess she mentioned it to her husband. From what Freddie said, he threw a fit. Put the house up for sale and moved the family here, to Vegas."

"And you've been in LA all these years?"

Corky nodded, "Until Fred came out there and offered me this part."

"And you didn't know who he was?"

"Not at the time, no." She looked at her hands; ashamed she didn't know her own son when he showed up on her doorstep.

"So, what? He offered you the part to get closer to you? To spend time, get to know the mother he never had?"

Corky belted out a sad laugh. "No." She met Jim's eyes as the laughter died in her throat. "He offered me the part to punish me."

--

Teddy Simpson had a book open, his elbows on the table, the book obscuring his face. He was engrossed in its words. Greg watched him for a moment, and wondered if Prof. Plumb's choice to change into a bright purple golf shirt was conscience or not.

The actor mumbled to himself under his breath, and Greg almost felt bad about disturbing him.

The young CSI cleared his throat politely. Teddy glanced up, and finding himself no longer alone in the room, quickly closed the book shut, laying it on the table in front of him.

"Greg Sanders, Las Vegas Crime Lab." Greg introduced himself.

"Theodore Simpson" the actor replied. "And you're here to ask me about Fred."

"Right," Greg agreed, taking the chair directly across from Teddy. "How 'bout you tell me about Freddie?"

"He was a jerk. But it was a good job, not a bad show." After a moment, he added, "Great benefits."

"You seem to be the only happy cast member." Greg commented.

"Really?" Teddy drummed his fingertips on the book cover. "I find that hard to believe."

Greg noticed the movement, then realized Teddy kept glancing down at the book. That peaked the CSI's interest. He flipped open the file in front of him and pulled out one of the crime scene photos "Take a look at this for me," he handed it to Teddy, making the actor take his hand off the book. "What're you reading?" Greg's hand was already on the book sliding it across the table before Teddy even realized it. Teddy made a grab for the book, but Greg effectively kept it out of the actors reach.

As Greg lifted the book, he opened it, the pages flipping with the movement, a folded up piece of paper fell out, landing in Greg's lap. The CSI glanced over the table, the color drained out of Teddy's face, but ever the actor his features were nonchalant.

"What's this?" Greg asked casually, despite his heart beating hard in his chest. He grabbed the paper and glanced at it. Directing his gaze back to the suspect, Greg arched an eyebrow. "You play the ponies?"

--

"Punish you?" Brass asked gently.

Corky nodded. "He had it rough he blamed me. Said if I'd kept him, he'd have had a better childhood."

"How's that?" His voice was still gentle.

She took a deep breath, reliving the pain she'd had when Fred had told her all this, erratically switching between screaming and sobbing. "His father," she stated simply. "When they moved to Vegas, he began drinking," she twitched her head, "and gambling. What savings he didn't lose, the drinking soaked up. He became depressed…angry at the world…and he took it out on his family."

"He beat Fred?" Brass' voice interrupted her thoughts, and she blinked, staring at him as if she wondered when he'd gotten there.

"Yes. He beat Fred…and Sylvia," she added, as if the abuse of her son's mother was less important. After a moment, she continued, "He died when Fred was 16, his liver finally gave up trying to keep him alive. And a few years ago, Sylvia was diagnosed with cancer… ya know, back in the 60's, everyone smoked. She never stopped. Guess it helped her with surviving the beatings." She paused for a moment, her eyes glazing, focusing back three decades. "One night, she and Freddie were watching an old movie on TV…it must have been _Bikini Bingo_, it's the only one I ever spoke in. Sylvia recognizes me and tells Freddie, 'there's your mother'" Her eyes refocused and she looked at Brass. "He didn't know until that moment that he was adopted."

Brass' eyebrows twitched, but not wanting to break the spell she'd put herself under, he said nothing.

"Sylvia told him the whole story, about my showing up – stalking them – about his fathers decision to move to Vegas. And he started to blame me for his life. Then Sylvia died, and he….had more time to focus his hatred."

"That why you were leaving the show?" Brass asked quietly.

Her demeanor changed with his voice. She sat up straighter, no longer forlorn and wondering what might have been, she focused back to the reason she was in the captain's office. "Yes. And no. Fred fired me."

"He lost interest in torturing you?"

She thought about the question as if it was something she hadn't considered before. "Possibly. But more than likely, he knew that I'd put a stop to Dicky's misery before he was done with him."

"Yeah." Brass began, "Dicky, Fred's daddy."

--

"This is Vegas, it's not illegal." Teddy protested.

"How do you make out?"

"What?" Teddy asked, misunderstanding the question.

"Do you win? Lose? Break even?"

"I do ok," Teddy said, his mouth forming a tight line, and he reached up, scratching his hawk-like nose.

_He's lying_ Greg knew instantly.

"Ok, huh?" Greg flipped open the file folder and held it up so Teddy couldn't see what he was reading. "That's not what your financial records say."

Teddy sat forward, "What've you got there?"

Greg glanced over the folder, meeting Teddy's eyes. "Your bank and credit card companies were kind enough to fax over their records."

"You had no right!" Teddy stood.

_Wow _Greg thought, not expecting such a reaction, and wished he really did have Teddy's financial records. Steeling his nerve, Greg said as authoritatively as he could, "Sit down Mr. Simpson." To his surprise, Teddy did.

"You lose. A lot, isn't that right?" Greg closed the folder and put it back on the table, folding his hands over it again.

"Yeah," Teddy sank back into his chair, ashamed. "I haven't won in months."

"How much are you in for?" Greg leaned in, eager to get to the truth.

"Twenty grand, to the wrong people."

"The wrong people? The mob?"

"Yeah, they're getting…_impatient_ with me." Teddy chose the word carefully. "I guess you found my prints on the candlestick huh?"

Greg tried hard not to look surprised. "Yes. Yes we did. Wanna tell me about it?"

"It was a part of the play when Mrs. White and Mr. Green are scheming. I took the moment when the audience's attention was elsewhere, and stepped over to the fireplace mantel. I'd been thinking that maybe I could get enough money from the candlesticks to keep the dogs at bay, as it were."

"You were gonna hock the props?" Greg asked amused.

Teddy shrugged. "They were some kind of plastic ceramic anyway, wouldn't have brought in near enough."

"And Fred's head wound?" Greg prompted.

Teddy put his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. "I didn't mean it, I swear, it was an accident."

"What was?"

"When I killed him." Teddy said his words muffled by his hands.

--

"Freddie seemed to enjoy torturing him as well, only poor Dicky didn't know why. He didn't remember me, much less have any idea Freddie could be his son." Corky said quietly.

"You never told him about the pregnancy?"

She shook her head. "No, he was a big star back then, and after _Bikini Bingo_ wrapped, he was off to Europe to film that Bond rip off crap. He'd forgotten my name long before I knew Freddie was on the way."

"And you still didn't tell Dicky, even when you learned the truth a few weeks ago?" Brass just didn't understand.

"Do you have any idea how humiliated I was at the first cast read through, when Dicky didn't remember me at all? Treated me as if I was a stranger? I remember Fred introduced us, and he…he _laughed_ when Dicky said 'Good to meet you'" she glanced away, blinking the tears in her eyes. "Now I know why."

"You still love him- Dicky?" It was more of an observation, but Brass formed it as a question.

She looked to the ceiling, "God help me, I've always loved him."

"Freddie's death puts Dicky in a better position to regain his lost career, something he's desperate for. Maybe your love for the man overcame your motherly instincts…" Brass let the question hang in the air.

Corky met Brass' gaze, understanding his allegation, "He may have been a monster, but I didn't kill him."

--

Greg swallowed hard. "You killed him?"

Teddy lifted his head and wiped his eyes. "It slipped. The candlestick…it slipped and fell onto the back of Freddie's head." He ran the back of his hand under his nose. "At first, I thought he'd jump up and ruin the show. But he didn't. And then I saw there was some blood. And I knew I'd killed him." Teddy started to cry again.

Greg sat back in the chair, disappointed. "Mr. Simpson," he began, speaking a little louder so the actor would hear him over his own sobs. "Mr. Simpson, the head wound wasn't the cause of death."

It took a moment for Greg's words to sink in, Teddy's tears slowed. He lifted his head out of his hands and met Greg's gaze. "What?"

Greg smiled slightly. "The head wound wasn't the cause of death."

"Then I didn't kill him?"

Greg cocked his head, "Well, that remains to be seen."

* * *

Thanks for the reviews, witchbsword, Blood of Darkness, bo, Svadilfari, rojaji, and of course, my adored AlwaysWrite. I hope you enjoy the final few chapters still to come. 


	9. The Deductions

**Chapter Nine**

**The Deductions**

Greg escorted Teddy to the waiting room. The rest of the cast was already there; Angela and Corky were sitting down in the row of chairs to the right. Patty and Dicky looked up as Teddy entered the room and sat down between them. Kenneth was in the corner and Wayne poured a cup of coffee from the small stand. A sharp short yap came from somewhere in the vicinity of Angela's feet.

With a glance to the uniformed officer standing next to the front wall -put there by Brass to make sure none of the suspects spoke to any of the others- Greg left the waiting room and headed to the conference room.

He was the last to arrive; everyone else was already gathered around the table, chatting amongst themselves. Warrick sat coolly relaxed in the chair, one arm hung over the back as he and Nick discussed Angela. Sara pulled out the chair between Nick and Catherine, a mug of hot tea in her hand. Catherine, Grissom and Brass spoke quietly at the end of the table closest to the door. Greg walked in quietly and took a seat next to Warrick.

Grissom glanced up at Greg's arrival, and waited a moment while Catherine finished her thought. "Ok," he declared, getting everyone's attention. "Who else came up with a motive from their interview with their suspect?" Every CSI raised their hand. Grissom raised an amused eyebrow. "Ok. Catherine, you're up first."

"Mrs. Peacock blamed the victim for her sisters death." The others listened as Catherine quickly went over the details.

"Why'd she take the job in the play if she hated Fred so much?" Greg asked.

"She didn't know he was involved until it was to late," Catherine tapped her pen against the note pad in front of her. "Mr. Green apparently took care of the business end."

"Yeah," Nick spoke up. "He had the money, that is until he became partners with the vic."

"Fred took him to the cleaners?" Warrick guessed.

"Right. The victim was pretty free about spending Mr. Green's money, _and _with cashing the ticket sales checks, which he never bothered to tell Mr. Green about."

"Ok," began Grissom, "so far the vic has been called a cad and a possible embezzler. What else?"

"Scarlet," Warrick spoke up "is on a Rowdy Girls DVD, something her daddy –the televangelist- wouldn't appreciate. And the victim blackmailed her into staying with the show." Warrick glanced at Nick as he spoke, and found his friend shaking his head, as if he should have known.

"I've got a bit of blackmail too," Grissom added, telling them Dicky's story. "And," he added as he finished, looking at Brass "I don't believe he knows the victim was his son."

Brass nodded at the comment, "Corky -Mrs. White- confirms she never told Dicky; not about the baby in the first place, and not when she found out Freddie was their son a few weeks ago."

"What's her story?" Nick asked, then listened raptly as Brass went over the highlights of what Corky had told him.

The group was quiet when Brass finished, each of them wondering what kind of hatred the victim must have had boiling up in him for so many years.

After a moment, Grissom interrupted the silence. "Sara? What did the butler have to say?"

"Wayne wrote a movie script about the life and insanity of King George the third," Sara began, "and had the unfortunate idea to share the idea with the victim, who promptly stole the idea and was talking to Professor Plum about playing the role of the King, the one Wayne Wayne wanted for himself."

"Wayne Wayne," Greg muttered through a quiet laugh.

"Greg," Grissom said somewhat sternly. "Your suspect?"

"Well," Greg sobered up quickly, "Professor Plum inflicted the head wound." Grissom and Catherine exchanged a glance. "He was examining the candlestick with the idea of hocking it to pay off part of his gambling debt, when he says it slipped out of his hands and hit the victim. Poor guy's been thinking he killed him all night."

"We don't know that he didn't," Grissom reminded him. "All right," Grissom looked around the table. "Where does that leave us?"

"_Murder on the Orient Express_?" Sara offered. She caught Greg's confused expression out of the corner of her eye. "Everyone did it," she explained.

"Possible, but not likely," Grissom said. "Arsenic is more of a one person kind of crime."

"Poison is usually a female weapon," Catherine offered.

"I don't know about that," Nick said, "sounds to me like Col Mustard had the most to gain by the victims death."

"Scarlet seems more the poisoning type to me," Sara began, "passive aggressive, never had a man say no to her."

"I did," Nick countered and took a sip from his coffee cup.

"Should we run that coffee through the lab?" Sara asked with a pursed lip smile.

The younger CSI's erupted in laughter, until Grissom stopped them with his voice. "All right," he slid off his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Griss?" Henry appeared in the doorway.

"Yeah, Henry come on in."

"I got the results on the victims stomach contents," he handed Grissom the report.

"What'd you find Henry?" Catherine asked as she leaned over, reading the report as Grissom slipped his glasses back on.

"Flour, milk, sugar, butter, almond paste…all the ingredients for almond cookies."

"Almond flavoring might mask the arsenic." She glanced up, "Thanks Henry."

"Cookies laced with arsenic? That's clever." Sara noted.

"Yeah, but we still have the same problem, who gave him the cookies?" Greg asked.

"The video," Nick said suddenly.

"What video?" Grissom asked over the top of his glasses.

"The tourists in the audience. They recorded everything." Nick answered as he stood up and headed for the door.

--

"Archie," Nick said, as he entered the AV Lab and clapped the lab tech on the back. "You get a chance to run that video I brought back from the hotel?"

"Yeah," Archie turned around to find the entire night shift standing in his lab, "But…I didn't see anything probative."

"Run it for us, Arch." Grissom ordered.

Archie nodded and turned to his keyboard, punching a few buttons in quick succession. In mere seconds the hotel lounge replaced the ATM footage he'd been working on when the team walked into his lab. With a click of the mouse, the video came to life. They all watched in silence for a moment, as if the wife with the pocketbook had caught the actual murder on tape and in focus and had just forgotten to mention it to anyone.

Scarlet batted her eyelashes and flipped her feather boa at Professor Plum, flirting with him. A moment later, the victim, Fred in the character of John Boddy walked up to them and began an argument among the characters.

"Ok," Grissom said, he's alive right there, fast forward till he's on the floor, then rewind till we see something.

Archie did as he was instructed, his fingers flying across the keyboard, eyes intent on the screen in front of him.

"There," Catherine called out. "Stop."

Archie did, and they all watched as the commotion of the fake dead body was discovered; the tourist wife had zoomed in on John Boddy lying on the floor. "Ok, Arch, now rewind it in slow motion."

With a few keypunches the people on the screen moved slowly backward, although Fred lying down on the floor wasn't actually on tape, in rewind, he was suddenly up and moving around.

"What are we looking for?" Archie asked, checking over his shoulder.

"Someone giving the vic a cookie." Sara answered him.

"A cookie?" Archie thought he'd heard her wrong. She nodded with a slight smile on her face.

"There," Warrick said suddenly "Archie, stop the tape."

The video had rewound to the point where Fred was not only alive, but sitting in an overstuffed armchair, to the left of the screen. The camera was focused mainly on Col Mustard, as he delivered what was supposed to be his inner thoughts, Mrs. White stood off in the background, playing her maid role by dusting a lamp, obviously listening.

"There," Warrick stepped up and pointed as a hand offering a plate to Fred. It was just the fingers and part of a palm. The rest of the hand; and arm, were cut off by the edge of the camera.

"Who is that?" Brass asked leaning in closer and tilting his head as if he'd be able to see what the camera didn't capture..

"Are any of the suspects that pale?" Greg asked, noting the hand holding the plate.

"Enhance that Arch," Nick asked.

Archie clicked a few keys and a lattice of red squares popped up on the screen, Archie deftly moved them over to cover the plate and hand, and with another two keystrokes, the image filled the screen.

"That's not skin," Grissom said smiling wryly and turned to look at Brass.


	10. The Confession

**Chapter Ten**

**The Confession**

Brass stepped thought the doorway of the waiting room. Each suspect looked up at his arrival, some with anticipation on their face, others with impatience. All of them had a bit of relief mixed in with all the other emotions on their face.

Jim met each of their eyes, saving the murderer for last. He held that gaze for a beat longer before waggling his finger. "Would you come with me please?"

--

Grissom was already sitting in the interrogation room; the other CSI's were gathered behind the two-way mirror. As the murder walked in and sat down, Grissom looked up from his notes and met the killer in the eye.

"Very apropos, the arsenic." Grissom said.

"You think so?" Said the killer.

The CSI supervisor tilted his head. "Yes, only when you take into consideration that it's believed King George was himself poisoned with that very thing."

Wayne Wayne smiled. "That was my little joke."

Behind the glass, Nick snorted out a quiet laugh. Warrick's brow furrowed, "What's funny?"

"We should have known all along," Nick said. "The butler did it."

-- The End --

* * *

Yes, rojaji, you were right.

Many thanks to witchbsword, Blood of Darkness, bo, Svadilfari, and AlwaysWrite for the reviews! I hope I didn't disappoint!


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